


An Evening of Truths

by easilysherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Series 3, Sherlock and Molly, Sherlolly - Freeform, mollock, sherlock bbc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easilysherlocked/pseuds/easilysherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, this fic takes place between episodes 2&3 of S3, and is basically an insert into the cannon plot of the show. Sherlock and Molly find themselves alone (and drunk!) in 221B, and Molly has some things she needs to get off her chest. Share, enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Evening of Truths

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fic that explored a few things-- first, Molly's transformation in S3. Second, the idea of a conversation between her and Sherlock that *puts it all out in the open,* so to speak. Third, my own personal dream cannon: that a lot more has happened between Sherlock and Molly pre-HLV than either lets on.

For the first time in weeks, 221B Baker Street was brimming with company.

It was early evening. A cool, late summer breeze blew through the slightly ajar window beside which Sherlock Holmes stood, hands folded neatly behind his back. Sherlock was in a quiet, observant mood—his keen eyes followed the occasional passerby on the street, and, every so often, flitted sideways to glance at his companions: Mrs. Martha Hudson, John and Mary Watson, Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. The guests sat around the cluttered flat, wine glasses in hand (with the exception of Mary, of course), chatting and laughing amiably—apparently there had been quite a bit of “catching up” to do since the happy couple had returned from their honeymoon.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, remembering John’s reaction to his initial branding of the retreat in the now infamous ‘sex holiday’ blog entry. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.  _Honeymoon_ —a frankly ridiculous appellation for the overall completely irrelevant ceremony dedicated to the physical bonding of the newly espoused. To simplify: sex holiday. Hardly a ceremonial affair when in this day in age, most couples were engaging in intercourse long before the question of nuptials had been raised. And there was certainly  _plenty_  of evidence to suggest that John and Mary weren’t some rare exception. Sherlock pointedly directed his attention back to the street corner below.

Across the room, Lestrade was laughing loudly at something Mary had said. Sherlock shifted inconspicuously against the wall so as to get a better look at the newlyweds. John sat in his favorite chair, his pregnant wife at his feet on the floor sipping a steaming cuppa. Occasionally she would lean her head back between his knees and flash him an upside-down grin. Despite the couple’s transparent and overtly  _sticky_ infatuation with each other, Sherlock couldn’t disguise the hint of an endearing smile that ghosted his features. It wasn’t long before Mary caught him watching from his perch at the window. Mrs. Watson raised a playful eyebrow at him, winked, then returned to the conversation.

So much had changed. Looking around at all of them, this… unconventional family…  _his_  family (a label that a slightly younger version of himself would have quickly rebuked), Sherlock had never felt more at ease. He owed each and every one of them a slice of his humanity. It was all still very foreign to him, this contentedness. Sherlock was not a sentimental man, and anyone who tried to deny as much was a fool—of that, he was certain. Yet, where once he'd never have concerned himself with the emotional burden of caring for another human being, Sherlock now found himself surrounded by not one, not two, but  _five_  people he'd easily risk his life for. It was disconcerting and strangely comforting all at the same time. Sherlock truly loved them—in the most human way of which he was capable. John and Mary. Mrs. Hudson. Molly Hooper. Perhaps in Lestrade’s case he fostered a deep liking and would have to leave it at that, but regardless, Sherlock Holmes could no longer be mistaken for the  _entirely_  insensitive, cold-blooded, crotchety git he was famously associated with. Sherlock frowned, unsure of how to feel about that. Maybe he was having a midlife crisis.  _What did that even mean anyway, a midlife crisis?_  

John's voice interrupted his musings. “Oi! Sherlock! Why don't you pop over and start socializing like a proper host!”

Sherlock blinked, refocusing his gaze. His guests all gazed back at him expectantly. John smirked.

Mrs. Hudson piped up, “Really dear, you weren’t planning on skulking about in the shadows  _all_  night, were you?”

Mary chuckled.

Sherlock looked at them all blankly, realizing he was being made fun of. He vaguely noted Lestrade downing the remainder what was probably his fifth glass of wine. The DI coughed and got to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself.  _Drunk._  Lestrade made a beeline for the kitchen, empty glass in hand. Sherlock pressed his lips together and surveyed the other guests. Molly also appeared to be sipping at a third or fourth glass, judging by the awkward angle at which she teetered on the edge of her seat. Sherlock sighed. 

“ _Socialize?_ Well, if I must,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm, winking at Mrs. Hudson. 

Molly snorted. Sherlock shot her a curious (and only slightly irate) glance. “Did I say something funny Molly?”

The tiny pathologist shrugged and shook her head, sipping her wine. Sherlock studied her face intently, but she avoided making eye contact. Was that…  _bitterness_  he detected? Sherlock gave Molly the once over, honing in on the details. He saw  _it_  then—or rather, didn’t see it. He hummed his understanding. Nobody else would have made the leap, of course. He wondered idly if he was supposed to say something.  _Was_  he supposed to say something?  _What,_ exactly, was he supposed to say? His brows knit together.

Just then, Lestrade returned from the kitchen with two glasses and shoved one into Sherlock’s hand. He wrinkled his nose. _Certainly_ not  _wine_. Sherlock wasn’t exactly harboring any desires to be drinking alcohol, let alone hard liquor—he’d sworn off it since the disastrous stag night—however, in a show of rare cordiality, he took a hesitant sip (to the satisfaction of a much-inebriated Lestrade, who clapped him on the shoulder).

“So Molly! How’re things with Tom?” John offered. Everyone turned to look at Miss Hooper.

Sherlock plopped down across from Molly and took another sip off his drink, resisting the urge to cut in with a sarcastic, “Yes Molly, tell us how things are with Tom.” Instead, he closely gauged her reaction.

_Single, short, halting exhale through the mouth—most likely indicates exasperation._

_Refusal to make eye-contact: discomfort, uneasiness._

That was apart from the obvious he’d noticed only moments ago.

_Engagement ring, clearly absent._

But that wasn’t all.

_Straight, stiff posture boasts conviction, constancy, resilience._

_Clear skin, clean hair, healthy weight…_

He had to admit, physically, she looked better than she had in ages... in which case Molly’d been the one to end it…

_Ah Miss Hooper, there may be hope for you yet._

“Ah Miss Hooper, there may be hope for you yet.”

“Sorry?”

Everyone was staring at Sherlock, who blinked rapidly, realizing he must’ve spoken aloud. Molly's shocked expression faded quickly and was replaced with a poorly disguised mask of irritation. She pursed her lips at him, finally meeting his gaze. She knew they were the only ones in on the joke.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Sorry, do continue Molly.”

Molly stared down into her empty wineglass and grumbled something unintelligible. When she looked up she was pursing her lips again, looking extremely bothered. “Right. Yeah, well, me and Tom… it really didn’t work out.” She made an irritated-sounding clicking noise as she waved her bared hand for everyone to see.

John, understanding, shot Sherlock a dirty look. When he turned back to Molly he opened his mouth to say something, but she cut in quickly. “I was the one to end it though.”

“Try not to look so surprised,” she added dryly, glaring, when everyone, save for Mary and Sherlock, raised their eyebrows.

“I’m so sorry, sweet,” Mary said, reaching out to rest a hand on Molly's knee. “You look brilliant though. Maybe it was the right decision.”

“It was,” Molly said quickly, her squeaky self again. She looked fleetingly at Sherlock, who cocked his head slightly, studying her.

“Mary’s right, dear,” Mrs. Hudson crooned, shaking her head. “Sometimes you just have to do what’s best for you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, right.” Molly swallowed, shifting side to side.

_Why are you so nervous Molly?_

Molly looked around at all of them and made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Sherlock wasn’t fooled. She still looked irritated and uncomfortable.  His brow furrowed, eyes following her keenly as she picked herself up and strode off toward the kitchen.

“That one doesn’t have much luck with the blokes, does she?” Lestrade half-whispered after Molly had gone off to fix her drink. His speech was slurred.

“Shut it, you cock,  _she’ll hear you_ ,” John hissed.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly. In a hushed tone, she said, “Poor dear. But she  _does_  look better, doesn’t she? Seems a bit different these days—personality-wise, I mean. Grown a bit of a backbone, hasn’t she? Wouldn’t you say Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock meaningfully.

“Hm?” Sherlock had hardly been paying attention. He was peering across the flat at Molly, who had poured herself a glass of something strong-looking and was leaning against the kitchen counter with her eyes closed, head tilted back. She could obviously hear them gossiping. 

“Looks like it might be time to call a cab for Greg,” Mary said, abruptly changing the subject—probably for Molly’s sake—and nodding at Lestrade.

Sherlock glanced over at the Detective Inspector, who appeared to be dozing off in his chair. “Couldn’t even make it past closing time,” he murmured, chuckling to himself.

“He’s not the only one we should be calling a cab for,” muttered John, looking pointedly in the direction of the kitchen.

Sherlock sighed, and began digging in his pocket for his mobile.

“I’ll call my own cab, thanks,” Molly snapped over his shoulder, suddenly reappearing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, almost smiling, and put the phone up to his ear “Yes, I need a taxi for a Gary—“

“Greg!”

“—Greg Lestrade. 221 Baker Street,” Sherlock drawled.

***

Gradually the guests began to file out of 221B. The Watsons escorted Lestrade to his waiting cab, and Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock an affectionate pat on the cheek before retiring to her own flat. Sherlock shut the door behind her, then turned slowly to face Molly Hooper, whom he found waiting unabashedly for him in his chair, legs crossed tightly. Sherlock leaned back against the door, eyeing her, his face unreadable.

They watched each other silently. She twiddled her thumbs in her lap. He raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest, all at once feeling inexplicably vulnerable. It annoyed him.

Molly bit her lip. “I never—“

“Called the cab, obviously,” he finished. His voice was flat.

She looked away.

“You ought to.”

“No,” she mumbled.

Sherlock's expression turned exasperated. He rolled his eyes, removing his jacket and slinging it over the back of John’s chair before moving to sit down across from her. Molly simultaneously pulled her legs up into her chest, almost protectively. Sherlock made careful note of her body language, lowering himself slowly into John's armchair.

“Are you angry with me, Molly?” He took care to keep his tone indifferent, but realized he was genuinely troubled at the thought.

Molly looked at anything but him. He waited.

“I—erm...You didn’t say you were sorry,” she finally managed.

“Excuse me?”

She still didn’t look at him. “About Tom. You never said you were sorry about my engagement—er— being over and all.”

Sherlock was genuinely puzzled. “Why would I? That is… if I am in fact correct deducing that you weren’t at all satisfied with your engagement to Tom…” he trailed off, waiting. When Molly didn’t reply, he let out a heaving sigh. “Okay. I am s—,” he began.

“Stop. Stop,” she cut him off, finally meeting his eyes. “It’s stupid, you’re right. And I suppose I shouldn’t have to ask you to extend me the courtesy, regardless." She sighed. "Don’t waste an apology on me, Sherlock. Especially if you don't mean it.”

There was a pause. Sherlock was starting to feel fidgety, but remained silent.

When he didn't reply Molly continued, “I’m feeling sorry for myself, Sherlock. I know I’m probably being a prat, I know I’ve had a bit too much to drink, I know I’ve invaded your flat.”

_You were already here._

She was rubbing her temples. “It’s  _me_ who should be apologizing, really.”

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “I…” Instead he drained his glass, which he’d nearly forgotten he was still holding. He wasn't sure where the conversation was headed, but it felt decidedly ominous. 

Sherlock's face was probably beginning to betray how deeply uncomfortable he was feeling, but Molly wasn’t paying too much attention. Her eyes remained unfocussed, giving the appearance that she was looking slightly over his shoulder. “The truth is, Sherlock, I’m angry with  _myself_.”

She looked at him then, leaning in slightly as if she were were getting ready to tell him a secret.

“Because I’ve done it again. I’ve cocked up my life  _all over again_! I really convinced myself that I—,” her voice broke, “That I was— that I really loved him! What kind of a  _joke,”—_ she spat the word with scathing emphasis—“does that make me, hm?” There were tears welling in her eyes now, but her voice was still angry, and building. 

The Consulting Detective was shaking his head minutely. His expression was slightly panicked—he had never encountered this version of Molly before. Sherlock Holmes did not often admit to being out of his league, but this was certainly one such occasion where he would have. Had Molly Hooper been a client, this would be exactly the type of case he would try to avoid. But Molly wasn’t a client, and he couldn’t just pick her up and shove her out of his flat. He was stuck there, frozen and at his most vulnerable, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut against the onslaught that he knew was coming.

Molly’s voice rang out shrilly in the silent flat. Her eyes were shining, and Sherlock had never seen someone look so tortured in his entire life, which was really saying something. “You’re not just some schoolgirl crush to me anymore, Sherlock! You say, ‘not all the men I fall for can be sociopaths,’ I say rubbish! What  _men_? There’s only one!” Molly was on the verge of either tears or laughter now. “Fuck! You and I both know it. Everyone knows… and don't you pretend otherwise... it's embarrassing...” She looked at him desperately as she trailed off.

Sherlock, for his part, was paralyzed. With a great deal of effort, he opened his mouth, only to shut it again, then reopen it. "Molly—" He barely recognized his own voice. He didn't even realize he'd spoken until moments after he'd uttered her name. Her name came out hoarsely, and was not a warning (as he'd intended) so much as a plea.

Molly's expression had sobered as she'd waited, and it seemed that by the time he'd said her name she was already decided. Her features were stony, and her voice came out firm and cold. “I’m in love with you, I've always been in love with you,” she said simply, not breaking his gaze.

"Don't," he said sharply, the full strength of his voice returned.

“—And I really, really wish I wasn’t.”

She let that sink in for a moment. Molly Hooper didn't blink. She didn't fidget. For the first time in her life, the mousy pathologist held Sherlock Holmes' gaze until it was him who had to look away. 

Molly fell back onto the black leather in silence, leaving Sherlock at a complete loss. His lips parted slightly, letting out a soft hiss. He wanted to blame the alcohol for her disturbing display of courage and honesty, but some part of him knew better—that he’d had this coming. He blinked, trying to clear his head, but his mind was spinning. He felt ill. Molly’s confession had left him completely disoriented. The alcohol pumping through his own bloodstream probably wasn’t improving the situation much either.

Sherlock marveled at how different it was hearing her say the words. She was right—he’d always known, Tom or no Tom. The signs were there, the chemistry was simple, but hearing those  _words_ … were they always so searing? So paralyzing? He felt too hot, and simultaneously, freezing cold...  _"And I really wish I didn't" ..._ Sherlock couldn’t believe how far out of his comfort zone she’d taken him tonight. He felt physically wounded. Deep in his abdomen, there was a slow, painful sensation—spreading, spreading—and somehow, to his horror,  _feeling..._  felt good. 

Sherlock cleared his throat, but Molly didn’t budge, her eyes following the little patterns etched into the ceiling of the flat. She looked completely drained—her expression somehow empty. It was as if her pixie-like features had been hardened over time. It occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile—really smile. All those smiles she used to flash him in the lab as they'd worked side by side, and he’d taken every single one of them for granted. She was no longer the delicate, girlish thing who’d brought him his coffee and could be charmed with a quick smile or an easy compliment. This Molly Hooper was  _strong_. Stronger than he was, that much was clear. But there was something tremendously sad about her as well. Something about her blank, unfeeling expression almost reminded him of… himself _._ Sherlock's eyes widened. In that moment, nothing terrified him more than the thought that it was  _he_  who had made her that way. Permanently. He couldn't think of a worse fate. 

Molly’s eyes drifted lazily to meet his—to gauge his full reaction, perhaps. Sherlock searched her face, wondering what she was finding in his own. But he didn’t have any answers, and neither did she, it seemed, so slowly, cautiously, he leaned forward and reached his arm across the space between them to rest his hand atop hers in the most tender gesture he could manage. Her hand was cold. He knew his eyes still showed the sheer panic that gripped his body, because he truly didn’t know what to do to help her—an apology seemed fruitless at this point.

After a long silence, Molly abruptly stood, and Sherlock obligingly let his hand slide off hers. He looked up at her. Her expression was softer, but it didn’t touch her eyes, which remained flat. Sherlock looked away again. He had to. 

“I’m going to make you another drink," said Molly, a hint of dark humor coloring her tone. She sounded nothing like herself. Sherlock winced. He couldn’t bring himself protest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Either way, he was incapable of speaking just yet—still processing. He nodded, once, without looking at her, and she disappeared into the kitchen.

***

His second drink was stronger than his first, but unlike before, he welcomed the familiar burn in his throat. It was, after all, a momentary distraction from the plethora of emotion bubbling up inside him. He could feel the last bits of his careful mask of poise and self-control crumbling under the crushing weight of Molly Hooper’s brutal honesty.

She stood over him now, sipping a cup of tea. Better tea than whatever he had in _his_ glass, he thought distractedly. He was surprised she was still standing as it was. The tiny pathologist was no lightweight, ironic as that seemed ... _"Meaning you think I like a drink"..._

She wasn’t looking at him. Rather, she seemed distracted by the car lights dancing across the windows overlooking Baker Street.

“Molly,” he said unsteadily, finally finding his voice.

“Mm.”

“Molly… I don’t… I don’t know how—,” he wrestled with his words, gritting his teeth, but fell silent when her fingertips grazed his cheek. His body instantly tensed and he sucked in a sharp breath. He wanted to help her—to make everything go back to normal—but he knew that was what people called "wishful thinking." Things couldn't go back to normal. Not now. He also knew he couldn’t do _this_. He couldn’t give her _this._  His thoughts briefly flickered to Janine. How different this was, when he had no excuse, no role to play, no silly act to hide behind. He couldn’t pretend with Molly. She was all too real to him.

The fingertips disappeared, and he exhaled. He was almost afraid to look at her, embarrassed at how he'd responded to the contact, but when he did look up, she was still lost in her trance, gazing out the window. He took the opportunity to take the last mouthful of his second drink. He shuddered, placed the glass aside, and stood. When he was certain his legs were still working properly, Sherlock strode forward, stopping in front of the window exactly where he had been standing earlier that evening. A muffled thud sounded as Molly set her own mug down. Then footsteps—she halted just short of him. He closed his eyes. 

"Your hands are shaking," Molly commented. 

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he pressed his palms to his sides. “I can’t give you what you want Molly. I’m not like you,” he said flatly.

“I know.” Molly sounded slightly defeated, worn down somehow. "But you could give me something."

“But you don't want that Molly, you don't want _something_ ," he said, his tone icy. "You want _more._ You want  _everything._ " His voice had turned so disgusted, so scathing, he could almost feel her flinch behind him. He set his jaw, trying desperately not to turn and look at her. 

“I just—I just want whatever you have to give. _Do you_ have anything to give?"

“Do I have anything to—" Sherlock felt sick again. _She wants to... to_ settle _?_ Enough. He spun around to face her, his eyes flashing. "You told me your truth Molly, but here’s mine: you may love me, but I am  _incapable_  of loving you. Every fiber of my being is preset to reject sentiment. Every cell in my body is  _programed_  to push you away!"

Molly digested what he'd said, biting her lip. Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes. "But you didn't answer the question.  _Do you have anything to give?_ " she repeated in a low voice, overly emphasizing each word.

Sherlock glared at her. "I don't know," he said finally, exasperated. 

There was a pause. For a moment, Molly looked slightly taken aback, but quickly pulled herself together. She chuckled humorlessly, then said in a clipped tone, "You wouldn't though, would you."

He threw his arms up in the air. "I don't want to! You _do?_ You want to open the door to something as… as  _unpredictable_  as sentiment? In someone as… unstable… as _Sherlock Holmes?_ ” He shook his head. 

Molly stood, unperturbed, expressionless. "You're afraid."

At that, he lunged forward and gripped her upper arms, shaking her. His voice came out in a low, fervent whisper, his eyes pleading now.

"If you think I am capable of cruelty now, Molly Hooper… then you won’t want to see what happens when you open the door to sentiment! My emotions are more of a danger to myself... and to you... than they're worth." He shoved back from her, adding, "Do you want me hurt you more than I already have?" Sherlock turned his back to face the windows once more.

There was a long silence. And then: "The door's already open."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Oh?"

Molly sounded tired. "If not, then look me in the eye and tell me you don't love John Watson. Or Mary? Mrs. Hudson? Even Greg—look, Sherlock, they're your family! Don't act like you don't know how to love—don't pretend it's some foreign concept to you!"

She was right, and he knew it. He'd been thinking about it all night.  _His family_. And he loved her too. How much, exactly, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

When Molly spoke again, she was hesitant. “You say you _don't know_ if you have anything to give. Sherlock... you could try." She took a deep breath. "Trust me, I can handle this.”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face.  _Oh can you?_ He mashed his mouth into a hard line.  _Can I?_

“You know you’re putting me in a very compromising position,” he said through gritted teeth.

“If by that you mean I’ve gotten you drunk and made a rather rotten attempt at seducing you, then yes, I know.” She chuckled. 

Sherlock understood she wasn't using the word in an entirely sexual context. There was a deeper meaning to her words.“It doesn't matter what I say or feel tonight, Molly. None of it would matter tomorrow. You know what I am. This couldn't last,” he spat angrily.

She stepped closer then, and he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. She didn’t touch him, but she was certainly breaking some unseen physical boundary between them. He remained perfectly still, steadying his own breathing.

“I have a girlfriend,” he mumbled in a last ditch effort to avoid disaster.

Molly snorted. “Good one.” There was a pause. She was clearly contemplating how to proceed. “You don’t have to keep up appearances here, Sherlock. It's just me, it's just Molly. You can let go.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper in his ear, but it shook, betraying her. 

 _Just... Molly._ Sherlock desperately fought the urge to run—as far from her as he could manage. He could imagine no greater threat than Molly Hooper with nothing to lose, and she clearly no longer cared about her own dignity. She was dropping all of the barriers now, including his own.

Her voice sounded in his ear one last time. “Let  _go_.”

It was all he needed. In a single instant, Sherlock completely forfeited the fierce control his mind bore over his soul, and he whipped around to face her once more. The sudden movement was startling enough to make her jump back. Molly’s eyes widened, fixed on his wild ones, realizing she’d won.

In that instant, Molly Hooper was her younger self—holding a cup of coffee, standing over a body—the timid admirer. Her hands shook, she adjusted her blouse nervously, and her expression was so suddenly familiar—warmer, somehow—that Sherlock exhaled sharply in surprise. 

His entire body softened then, and he approached her as he might a child, edging forward until she was close enough to feel his breath on her face, mere inches away. His heart was hammering in his chest, and though his features remained relaxed, he was sure his eyes betrayed fear. There was no hiding from her now. The door was open.

“Molly I…” Sherlock searched her face, unsure of what he needed to tell her. She remained motionless, waiting, equally unsure. His brows knit together in the silence. “I can’t lose you,” Sherlock finished. It was less of statement than it was a question.

Molly shook her head slowly.  _You won’t_. She didn’t need to say it aloud—he knew it as well as she. Molly would always be there, as she always had been. He would never lose her, he would never  _not_  need her. He knew then he that had _everything_ to give—everything. He was utterly defenseless—beaten. As soon as he’d admitted it, there was no going back.

Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he gingerly slid his hand around her waist. She trembled under his touch, but made no other motion. She was still disbelieving, waiting for him to change his mind. After making a final assessment of her face, Sherlock at last lowered his mouth to meet hers, abandoning himself completely.

She was unyielding at first, frozen in surprise, but when he tugged her closer to him her lips eventually parted under his. He kissed her as gently as he knew how, exploring the effortless way her soft mouth molded to his. He relished in his heightened his senses—this intimacy had a similar effect to some of his choice ‘stimulants.’

As he deepened the kiss he felt her fingers weave through his dark curls, and, in spite of himself, he sighed softly against her mouth. She was kissing him enthusiastically now, wound tightly around him, and he pressed her closer still, holding her firmly. When her tongue slid deliberately across his lower lip, he quickly pulled away, taking several steps back, his expression chaotic. It was only reflex, but he didn’t re-approach her. He merely stood, meeting her eyes, breathing heavily.

Molly swayed, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. She looked delighted—and satisfied. 

“Enjoying yourself?” He said dryly. 

She smirked. “Not as much as you are, I think.” She hesitated. “Could I be dreaming?”

Sherlock snorted, genuinely amused. “The balance of probability would certainly suggest so.”

“Yeah. Pretty unlikely, this.” Molly looked around, biting her lip.

There was an awkward silence. Sherlock leaned casually against the wall, watching her with soft eyes. “I trust you more than I give you credit for, you know.”

She looked back to him, smiling slightly. “I know." The smile faded. "Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“I don’t want you to feel guilty.”

 _Of course I feel guilty._  Sherlock cleared his throat.“Guilty?”

Molly sighed, averting her eyes. “This whole night… It’s been… Well I’ve said some things, and I just want you to know it wasn’t about making you feel guilty, because I forgive you. For everything. This was just about me getting the courage to be able to say those things out loud. It wasn’t… well it was for me, is all.”

Sherlock considered that, slightly irritated. “I’m... glad you’ve been so honest with me, Molly.” He watched her silently for a moment before continuing; “But I didn’t kiss you because I’m _feeling guilty_ , if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Molly looked at him quickly. “Good… good,” she mumbled. Her brow furrowed. "Because if you really don't want—"

"Shut up Molly."

"Okay," she squeaked.

For both their sakes, he hoped she truly understood. He wasn’t going to explain himself, and though this would certainly be the time to do so, he wouldn’t know how.

Molly took a hesitant step toward, and then another, until she was standing directly in front of him again. As she closed the distance, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tightly, resting her head on his shoulder. Sherlock’s arms remained limp at his sides, processing. She was hugging him. He let her rest there a moment before sliding his own arms around the small of her back. His grip on her was much looser, but Molly didn’t release him. They stood there like that for what seemed like an eternity. Sherlock never completely relaxed, but his fingers stroked her back absentmindedly while he counted the headlights as they flickered by.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into his shoulder. She began to disentangle herself, but Sherlock suddenly gripped her more tightly. She looked at him curiously, and for a moment, he looked confused—lost, almost. Warning bells were sounding in his head. _Just let her go. Let it_ go _._ But for once, Sherlock, out of some great need that he didn't fully understand, turned his back on logic. His expression darkened and turned hungry. He crushed her to him, not taking the time to check himself, shutting out every thought except  _Molly._ He wasn’t so gentle with her this time.

Molly’s lips parted and he could feel her breath, hot on the back of his throat. He forced her mouth open wider, exploring her further, but suddenly her lips were gone. She didn’t give him time to protest before she’d buried her face in his neck. He felt her smile at his sharp intake of breath when Molly's tongue slid across his throat and jawline. Sherlock let out a very low moan, gripping her so tightly he worried he might leave bruises on her waist. 

Moments later, her hands crept up to the buttons on his shirt, and he let her undo them, though he became very still. She eyed him playfully and occasionally pressed a soft kiss to his mouth as she tugged the shirt out of his trousers and slid it off his shoulders. 

He cocked his head at her slightly, watching the way her eyes devoured every inch of him. “Should I…” Sherlock fingered the edge of her blouse, curiously, like he was conducting an experiment.

Molly smirked at him.

He took that as yes. He eyed her inquisitively, pulling the blouse over her head and discarding it on the back of his chair. Molly grinned shyly as Sherlock surveyed handiwork. He wrapped his arms around her. She was so warm, every inch of her bare skin flushed. 

“Molly… are you—”

“Don’t,” she murmured into his chest. “It’s okay.”

“Molly?”

“Yes?”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “I’m sorry about your en—“

She chuckled. “Not really the time for that, I think. I’m sure you’ll find the right moment though.”

He sighed, took her hand, and guided her off toward the bedroom.

***

Sherlock squinted at the sunlight pouring through his bedroom window. The slight hangover wasn’t at all unmanageable, but it did take him a moment to get his bearings. He blinked, remembering. Carefully, he shifted onto his side. Molly Hooper was lying on her stomach beside him, her face turned away, towards the opposite wall. Sunlight streamed across her bare back.

Sherlock swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut. Childishly, he imagined that when he opened them again, the naked pathologist in his bed might actually have disappeared. What could have possessed him to behave so  _stupidly_? He’d let her get the best of him, but they were both going to pay the price.

Sherlock slid out of bed as carefully as possible, dreading the conversation that would ensue if she woke up. He grabbed his dressing gown off the door hook and slung it on, all the while keeping his eyes on Molly. He busied himself with quietly retrieving her clothing from its various resting places, folding it, and laying it out next to her on the bed. When he finished he lingered, only for a minute, because part of him  _did_  almost wish she’d wake up. He knew the moment he left her there would be the moment he shut the door on his feelings for her—feelings he could no longer deny, feelings that he'd have bury once more… " _You know what I am. This can't last."_

***

Sherlock left the note on top of her stack of clothes.

**Please let yourself out. Help yourself to tea.**

**See you at Bart’s.**

**SH**

He stood in the doorway, eyes closed, allowing himself to remember for the first—and last—time. The softness of her skin under his hands. Her fingers in his hair and his mouth on her collarbone. Her low moan and the way she dug her fingernails into his back when came undone around him. Sherlock swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. _What have you done?_  

His eyes traced her sleeping form one last time. “Thank you, Molly Hooper,” he said quietly before closing the door behind him. The moment it was shut, he felt utterly empty. 

As he strode out of the flat, he started dialing Janine on his mobile…  _time to go be Sherlock Homes._


End file.
